


Two Hundred and Five Thousand, Fifty Hundred and Fifty . . . Eight

by allrounderinsane



Category: Cricket RPF
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-12
Updated: 2015-12-12
Packaged: 2018-05-06 06:45:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5406968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allrounderinsane/pseuds/allrounderinsane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hobart's newest temporary resident may just be its grooviest yet. ABC Grandstand's newest commentator is planning to show the city just what he's made of.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Two Hundred and Five Thousand, Fifty Hundred and Fifty . . . Eight

**Author's Note:**

> For Tam. I love you so much. I hope that this brings a smile to your dial (I've tried to include all of your favourites in here).

“It’ll be a Friday night in Hobart,” Jim announces as he begins his stint with Dirk.  
Chris and Simon have moved into the back of the box, as the more senior commentator makes allusions to everything that they might be getting up to once stumps arrives.  
“Come on, Bucky,” Simon urges, quietly, “Are you getting ready to paint the town red?”  
Chris chuckles modestly.  
“Well, it might be your turn now,” he points out, “I’ve been carrying this group all summer long”.  
Simon casually places his arm around Chris’ shoulders, leaning back and crossing his legs.  
“New series, mate,” he mentions, “Got to stake your claim again as the media’s twinkle toes”.

Simon fixes his gaze onto Chris.  
“Come on, Bucky,” he suggests, “You know you want to”.  
Chris nods with a laugh.  
“You know me too well,” he states.

That night they find themselves in a Hobart bar, with a dance floor not big enough for more than a few. Gerard’s been caught outside by the waterfront with his fan club, undoubtedly going to be the topic of tomorrow’s ribbing on air.  
“The king's settled in for the night,” Simon comments as he and Chris find a seat suitably close to the dance floor.  
Simon places his beer down on the small wooden coffee table in front of them. He touches his fingertips to Chris’ shoulder.  
“Now it’s time for another king,” Simon mentions.  
Chris laughs modestly, but stands, cheered on by Dirk, Neroli and Dan.

He takes a swig of his beer, then puts the bottle down on the table, and swings his arm, lumbering up, extending and curling his fingers. Chris struts over to the dance floor, then twirls on his toes.  
“Onya Bucky!” Dirk calls out, clapping his hands, “Show us what you’re made of!”.  
Chris grins.

For all that has been said and written about his batting, this is his arena. This is not about work and triumph, this is flair, reward and gratification. Chris is thankful that the song is to his tastes, one from his era, which makes it relatively modern compared to the tastes of his colleagues (Kat’s penchant for The Wiggles, inspired by his children, doesn’t count, Chris reckons). He moves his feet to the rhythm of the tune and the sound of his colleagues (Chris nearly refers to them as his teammates, he hasn’t been retired for that long, after all) clapping. Chris rocks his head from side to side. He raises and lowers his shoulders, exposing his palms as he attempts a moonwalk, away from the others.

This is Chris’ arena. He pretends to flick his hair back (he doesn’t actually have enough of it for it to have an effect) and blows a kiss. Chris raises his hand in thanks, while Dirk whistles his approval.  
“Come on, Bucky, is that all we’re getting?” he asks.  
Chris sips from his beer.  
“Haven’t you had enough?” he asks, tempting.  
“Of course not, Bucky,” Dirk insists.  
He removes Chris’ beer from his hand, then bats him away with his hand.

“Last long than a rain delay today,” Dirk commands.  
Chris chuckles, and struts back over to the dance floor. The soles of his shoes squeak against the shiny surface of the dance floor, glowing under the bright lights above them. Chris tilts his toes back and forth as he reaches the other side, then swirls around. He moonwalks back towards them. Chris spies Gerard finally entering the bar, so he takes his bow, to the enthusiastic cheers of everybody around them, and resumes the seat.  
“Look what we’ve got here,” Simon introduces, “It’s the King of Tasmania”.  
Gerard laughs modestly.

“Not quite sure about that,” he corrects, “But they were all very nice, and very enthusiastic”.  
“I’ve never met a mean Tasmanian,” Simon mentions.  
It’s then that Chris spots George entering, just as they had planned, so that they could catch up while he is in town.  
“Alright,” Chris declares, “Move aside, Gerard. Here’s the real King of Tasmania”.  
George is grinning as usual. Chris stands and walks over to him, greeting him with a hug.  
“Great to see you, mate,” George greets him, “Glad that we could catch up while you’re in town”.  
“Yeah,” Chris agrees.

“Sorry about the cold weather,” George apologies.  
They move over to a nearby couch, far enough away from the dance floor, and sit down.  
“No worries, we’re all warm-blooded creatures,” Chris responds.  
“I heard you’re planning to take Hobart by storm, Bucky,” George reveals.

Chris chuckles, glancing away.  
“Yeah, you’re late, Bails, I’ve already strutted my stuff,” he points out.  
“Shame to miss it then,” George comments.  
“Well, Bails,” Chris says, “Just for you, how about an encore performance?”

“Well, that’d be lovely, only if you’re up for it,” George insists.  
“Mate, have you ever known me not to be up for a dance?” Chris questions.  
George shakes his head as Chris stands. He leans back to relax while Chris twirls on one foot. George is ready to be entertained. Hobart’s really not going to know what’s hit it.

**Author's Note:**

> Yes I have included journalists in this fic, I tried to be brief. That question in my questions wasn't specifically about this, though.


End file.
